outstretched arm (for the taking of the photo), holding aloft a knife in his or her other hand, above the unconscious man’s chest, in a way designed to suggest that a stabbing was imminent. The knife in the photograph was the same one (or identical to the one) that ended up taped to the murder victim’s face, suffocating him rather than spilling his blood.
And now the question is coming up, so pay attention, ladies! (Actually, it’s questions, plural.)
The murderer planned the crime in advance. It was about as premeditated as a killing can be. It involved bringing to the crime scene a knife, a knife sharpener, parcel tape, red paint, a paintbrush and a bio-hazard suit. The killer obviously knew the deceased’s computer password. How? There was no evidence of a break-in. Did her victim let her in? (I’m saying ‘her’ because that’s my hunch: that it was a woman. Maybe it was you?) Did the well-known man say to her, ‘Go on, then: bind me to my chair, knock me out and kill me’? That seems unlikely. Maybe the killer pretended it was some sort of erotic game, or maybe I’m only speculating along these lines because Intimate Links is the perfect place to do so – the online home of sexual game-players of all kinds.
The most puzzling question is this: why arrive at the victim’s house with a knife and a knife sharpener when you have no intention of stabbing him? Why sharpen that knife at the crime scene if all you’re going to do is tape it, flat, against his face? For that purpose, the knife would work just as effectively if its blade were blunt.
Or, looking at it another way . . . if you’ve got a newly sharpened knife, and you’ve covered your clothing to protect it from blood splashes, and if, coincidentally, you also want to write a strange message in big red letters on the wall, why not stab the guy and use his blood to write with? Because you particularly want to suffocate him? Then why not do it more straightforwardly, with, say, a plastic bag over his head, taped round his neck to make it airtight? Why use a knife at all?
For some reason, you wanted to kill this man with a sharp knife, but you didn’t want to stab him. Why not? And the photograph you emailed—what’s that about? What are you trying to communicate? Is it ‘Look, I could so easily have stabbed him, but I didn’t’?
I realise I’ve slipped into using ‘you’ when I talk about the murderer, rather than ‘she’, or ‘he or she’. I’m sorry. I’m not accusing you of killing anybody. Maybe you’re not the murderer of the well-known man. You might be someone who wishes he were still alive, someone who loves him, or once did – a lover, a close friend. I’m really not sure. All I know is that you’re reading this and you know the answers to the questions I’m asking. You desperately want to tell someone what you know.
I’m the person to trust with the information. I’ve taken a huge risk in sharing so many secrets, in the hope of eliciting a reply from you. So, please, contact me. I’m waiting, and I promise I won’t judge you. Whatever you’ve done, you had your reasons. I am ready to listen and understand.
Looking forward to hearing from you soon.
C (for Confidant) x
• Location: Wherever You Are
• It’s NOT OK to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Posted: 2013-07-04, 16:17PM GMT
Chapter 1
M ONDAY, J ULY 1, 2013
I T CAN’T BE him. All policemen wear high-visibility jackets these days. Lots must have sand-colored hair that’s a little bit wavy. In a minute he’ll turn round and I’ll see his face and laugh at myself for panicking.
Don’t turn around, unless you’re someone else. Be someone else. Please.
I sit perfectly still, try not to notice the far-reaching reverberations of every heartbeat. There is too much distance trapped in me. Miles. I can’t reach myself. A weird illusion grips me: that I am my heart and my car is my chest, and I’m shaking
And now the question is coming up, so pay attention, ladies! (Actually, it’s questions, plural.)
The murderer planned the crime in advance. It was about as premeditated as a killing can be. It involved bringing to the crime scene a knife, a knife sharpener, parcel tape, red paint, a paintbrush and a bio-hazard suit. The killer obviously knew the deceased’s computer password. How? There was no evidence of a break-in. Did her victim let her in? (I’m saying ‘her’ because that’s my hunch: that it was a woman. Maybe it was you?) Did the well-known man say to her, ‘Go on, then: bind me to my chair, knock me out and kill me’? That seems unlikely. Maybe the killer pretended it was some sort of erotic game, or maybe I’m only speculating along these lines because Intimate Links is the perfect place to do so – the online home of sexual game-players of all kinds.
The most puzzling question is this: why arrive at the victim’s house with a knife and a knife sharpener when you have no intention of stabbing him? Why sharpen that knife at the crime scene if all you’re going to do is tape it, flat, against his face? For that purpose, the knife would work just as effectively if its blade were blunt.
Or, looking at it another way . . . if you’ve got a newly sharpened knife, and you’ve covered your clothing to protect it from blood splashes, and if, coincidentally, you also want to write a strange message in big red letters on the wall, why not stab the guy and use his blood to write with? Because you particularly want to suffocate him? Then why not do it more straightforwardly, with, say, a plastic bag over his head, taped round his neck to make it airtight? Why use a knife at all?
For some reason, you wanted to kill this man with a sharp knife, but you didn’t want to stab him. Why not? And the photograph you emailed—what’s that about? What are you trying to communicate? Is it ‘Look, I could so easily have stabbed him, but I didn’t’?
I realise I’ve slipped into using ‘you’ when I talk about the murderer, rather than ‘she’, or ‘he or she’. I’m sorry. I’m not accusing you of killing anybody. Maybe you’re not the murderer of the well-known man. You might be someone who wishes he were still alive, someone who loves him, or once did – a lover, a close friend. I’m really not sure. All I know is that you’re reading this and you know the answers to the questions I’m asking. You desperately want to tell someone what you know.
I’m the person to trust with the information. I’ve taken a huge risk in sharing so many secrets, in the hope of eliciting a reply from you. So, please, contact me. I’m waiting, and I promise I won’t judge you. Whatever you’ve done, you had your reasons. I am ready to listen and understand.
Looking forward to hearing from you soon.
C (for Confidant) x
• Location: Wherever You Are
• It’s NOT OK to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Posted: 2013-07-04, 16:17PM GMT
Chapter 1
M ONDAY, J ULY 1, 2013
I T CAN’T BE him. All policemen wear high-visibility jackets these days. Lots must have sand-colored hair that’s a little bit wavy. In a minute he’ll turn round and I’ll see his face and laugh at myself for panicking.
Don’t turn around, unless you’re someone else. Be someone else. Please.
I sit perfectly still, try not to notice the far-reaching reverberations of every heartbeat. There is too much distance trapped in me. Miles. I can’t reach myself. A weird illusion grips me: that I am my heart and my car is my chest, and I’m shaking
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